


Floral Declaration

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't very good with words when it comes to expressing sentiment, but he's great with flowers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floral Declaration

Dr. Molly Hooper was currently lying in her bed. It was one of those endlessly gray mornings. Gray skies, gray rain, gray spirits. And it certainly didn’t help that the walls of her bedroom had been painted, too long ago, a soft gray, as well. Molly wanted sunshine! She wanted light, and happiness, and something to lift her spirits. She sat up in bed and surveyed the room.The paint was, indeed, old and tired looking. It had been on the walls when she moved in seven years ago, and, if her landlord had his way, would probably remain on the walls until she moved out.

Molly hated painting. She found that her diminutive stature worked against her, being unable to reach out of the way places, or heights, without assistance. She was also prone to being a bit unsteady when using a ladder, or a chair, and any clothing she wore came out of the experience even more colorful than it had been at the beginning. But she was determined to bring a bit of sunshine into this dull room, and considered herself fortunate that she knew a tall, long-limbed individual who owed her a favor, or two.

When Sherlock Holmes entered the lab at St. Bart’s that fateful day, he certainly didn’t look like a house painter. He was wearing a tightly tailored designer suit and was wrapped in his trademark Belstaff coat. But all Molly seemed to notice was his height and his rather far reaching arms, well able to access all those areas so far beyond her. She would surely feel a bit of guilt if he ruined any of his perfectly tailored clothing, especially that purple shirt she loved so much, but the thought of a freshly painted bedroom soon overcame this.

“Sherlock, have you ever done any painting?” she asked with an ingratiating smile.

“I have, on occasion. In my younger days, at school, I was considered a bit of a prodigy. Landscapes were my specialty, but I did do the occasional portrait and still life.”

“How good are you at walls, Sherlock?”

“I don’t find them as challenging, but I have been known to paint a wall or two. Painting parties at various friends’ flats during my uni days. You’d be surprised how often some of my acquaintances were required to change location, and needed to freshen up cheap, rather derelict domiciles.”

“Having heard a bit from Mycroft of your proclivities during your uni days, I’m not surprised at all! I am surprised at your artistic endeavors, however. Why did you give it up?” 

“I simply chose to pursue my music studies, instead, Molly. Mummy also said it was because I found I could annoy more people with midnight violin practice sessions than with the quieter pursuit of drawing, sketching, or painting. She might not have thought that if she had ever seen some of the more salacious nudes I drew for my brother.”

“Don’t want to hear about that, Sherlock!” Molly said, tempted to stuff a finger in each ear. In reality, she was looking at the attractive man in front of her, and imagining some salacious nudes of her own. “I need help painting my bedroom, and you’re just the person I require.”  
“Why me?”

“You’re tall, long-limbed, agile, precise, neat…” She hesitated a bit.

“And?”

“And you owe me a favor, Sherlock. Several. I would say.”

“I loathe manual labor. Isn’t there some other way I could repay you?” Sherlock smiled his most charming smile.

Molly thought back to the image of the salacious nude still imbedded in her mind, and could, of course, think of several ways he could repay her. None of which were exactly moral, several of which may, in fact, be illegal. But she smiled innocently and continued. “I need you to help me paint my bedroom, and that’s all I require, Sherlock. How about this weekend? I’ll supply everything else, if you supply the labor. Deal?”

The detective thought for a moment. He certainly did owe the pathologist quite a lot, and in the scheme of things, a single day of manual labor did not seem to be such a huge request. “Deal.” he muttered, finally giving in. “I shall be there Saturday morning.”

True to his word, Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, showed up just before ten on Saturday morning, fully prepared for the day’s labor ahead of him. He had briefly considered sending his minion, Billy Wiggins, in his place, but had decided that Molly would not approve of the substitution. So, there he was, surveying the room to be painted, and considering possibilities.

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you wearing?” Molly seemed a bit confused.

“I don’t see anything unusual about my attire, Molly. Simply my usual…”

“Exactly! Your usual! How do you expect to paint in a tightly fitted designer suit? And the buttons on your shirt couldn’t possibly survive all the bending and stretching!” As she said this, Molly was beginning to see the upside of the situation.

“Molly, I have no intention of painting in my clothes. I’ve brought these.” With these words, he pulled a rather brief pair of training shorts out of the pocket of his Belstaff.

“That’s it? That’s what you intend to wear?”

“Molly, these are only for your benefit, a concession to your sense of modesty. At uni we used to do all the painting in the nude. It’s much easier to get paint off skin than out of clothing, as anyone knows. It’s also much more fun if you have somebody helping with the clean-up.”

“I’m beginning to see why John never insisting on doing any redecorating at Baker Street, Sherlock. Tell me, just out of curiosity, did any of your so-called ‘painting parties’ have anything to do with drugs?”

“Molly, while I am not proud to admit it, virtually everything I did in those days involved drugs.”

“Typical uni lifestyle, huh? Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”

“To be fair, Molly, I did earn a degree, and managed to leave some of my vices behind me. ‘Two outta three ain’t bad,’ as they say. I took me a bit longer to give up the third, perhaps, but I think I’ve succeeded, at last.”

“Maybe you should have dropped that one years ago, and continued on with the other two. Picture it. Sherlock Holmes, rock and roll violinist and sex god.” Molly couldn’t suppress a fit of giggles as the detective glared at her, probably offended that she would entertain the thought of his using his prized Stradivarius for such an undignified purpose, while she was, of course, thinking of him using his physical attributes in an equally undignified way. She eventually regained her composure to continue. “Okay, whatever, but I’m wearing coveralls!” If she had been a bit more astute, she may have noticed the slight look of disappointment on the man’s face.

Their first argument had been over the necessity of taping everything in sight. Molly had been eager to begin the painting process, and balked at all the preliminary preparations Sherlock deemed necessary.

“Sherlock, come on, we can be careful. I know how to color inside the lines.”

“Molly, if you want a professional looking job, you have to take certain steps. Taping will give us clean, professional lines where colors meet. You don’t want to be lying in bed staring at all the imperfections, and thinking about how you could have done it better.”

He was certainly correct. Molly did not want to be distracted by painting imperfections while lying in bed. There were other far more pleasant distractions on which to dwell. Like the knots of muscle in his forearms, and the way his abs looked under the near porcelain like perfection of his torso. She found herself nodding in acquiescense. 

The next disagreement was over the paint color. Molly had chosen what she considered a sunny yellow, but could tell by the look on her companion’s face that he did not really approve. “Problem, Sherlock?”

“I’m merely trying to deduce why, in a room designed for sleep, you would choose a color bright enough to wake the dead.”

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s a sunny yellow!”  
“Sunny is one thing, Dr. Hooper. But this shade is bright enough to cause retina damage!”

“I like bright colors!”

“I can tell that from your wardrobe, Molly, but bright is one thing and nuclear is quite another. Can you explain your choice?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small sigh. “Look, Sherlock, I was raised in a small village. Plenty of sunshine and light. No tall buildings and concrete canyons to block the light. I love London, but I just can’t stand waking up to a gray room that reflects the gray light that filters into it. One of my favorite memories is playing in my grandmother’s garden. It was full of daisies and sunlight. To this day, daisies are my favorite flower, and I still miss the sunlight of that garden.”

The detective studied the smaller woman with a gentle smile. ”Well, the daisy is highly appropriate, in any case.”

“What do you mean?”

“Victorians had very strict meanings for specific flowers, Molly. A language, as it were. Daisies were meant to imply innocence, loyalty, an ‘I’ll never tell’ mentality, and purity. Most of those attributes apply to you, though I’ll give you a pass on the ‘purity’.”

“Very funny, you git. Do you mean to imply I’m slutty?”

“Of course not, Dr. Hooper. Just not entirely pure, as is perfectly normal for a woman of your age and desirablity.”

“Thank you, I think. So I’m just a normal kind of slutty. Reassuring, that.”

“So tell me, Molly, if you like daisies so much, why do I never see any cut flowers in your home or office?”

Molly heaved a heavy sigh. “I deal with death every day, Sherlock. I don’t need dying flowers to remind me of my mortality.”

The detective nodded his head in acknowledgement, and perhaps a bit of sympathy. He felt a bit sad that his friend would deny herself something she enjoyed so much because of the bad feelings which could be engendered. If he could do anything about that, he decided he would.

It took them just over three hours to finish the room, most of the time involving taping all the surfaces. It may have taken a bit less time if Molly had not been distracted by a semi-naked Sherlock contorting his body to reach all the nook and crannies. Or if Sherlock had not been similarly taken with the way Molly’s coveralls stretched across her shapely bum. When they finally sat on her bed to survey their work, Sherlock could not help but say, “Molly, perhaps you should retire your night cream and opt for a sunscreen, instead!” He was stopped from further comment by a pillow blow to the side of the head. “Mind if I use your shower? I need to clean up.” As he rose from the bed on his way to her bath, gathering his clothes enroute, Molly was definitely beginning to see the advantages of painting naked and cleaning each other off.

When the detective had dressed, Molly suggested she order takeaway for an early dinner as a thank you for his assistance. He volunteered to pick up it while she cleaned herself up, and they spent the rest of the day, and evening, watching crap telly.

Barely forty-eight hours had passed before Molly decided that Sherlock had, after all, been correct, as he usually was. As much as she liked bright colors, she decided that they were better in smaller doses. A splash of color in a throw pillow. A floral print on a blouse. A face towel in the bathroom. But painting every wall in her room such a vivid color was just a bit too much. She could almost swear that she could see the blazing color through her eyelids as she slept. Molly wasn’t sure just how much of this was reality, or simply the power of Sherlock’s suggestion, but she did know that the color was making her uncomfortable, and that she would never admit this to her friend. Now, as she made her way home, she was not looking forward to settling down to a restful night. Sleeping on the surface of the sun was hardly restful.

When she retired for the night, she postponed turning on her bedside lamp until the last possible moment, but finally yielded to the inevitable. She definitely needed the lamp for a little bedtime reading. She reached for the switch, ready for the luminous assault on her eyes, but was surprised to see something totally unexpected. On the wall behind her nightstand was a lovely painting of a huge vase brimming with daisies, done at precisely the correct position to make it seem as if it were resting on the piece of furniture. The daisies were exploding from their container as if jockeying for position. Some were upright, some were spilling over the side. Their white color was a cool respite from the heat of the yellow background on which they were painted, their yellow centers a softer version of the hue on the wall behind them. And in the center of the arrangement was a single vibrant red rose in full bloom. A single sheet of notepaper was painted, too, propped up against the vase, containing a message.

“I hope you like them. I mentioned the Victorian language of flowers, and how appropriate I thought daisies were for you. The addition of the rose makes the arrangement complete. And they’ll never die. Sherlock.”

Molly could not take her eyes from the painting. She was completely taken aback by the sentiment involved in such an action. And, while she could in no way claim to be fluent in the “language of flowers”, she had an inkling of what a red rose was meant to convey. She must be misinterpreting the whole thing! Perhaps she should call the man? But, looking at the late hour, Molly decided that it would be better left to the following day. Besides, this way, she could doze off imagining what it would be like if she hadn’t misinterpreted the meaning of the red rose.

The first thing Molly Hooper did upon awakening was to check her laptop for the meaning of a red rose, in the Victorian sense. And, sure enough, a red rose signified romantic love, passionate love. Still convinced this could not be, Molly reluctantly reached for her mobile to text Sherlock, as she knew he preferred this method of communication.

THANK YOU. THE DAISIES ARE LOVELY. - MOLLY

AND THE ROSE? - SH

LOVELY ALSO, OF COURSE. BUT CONFUSING. - MOLLY

PERHAPS YOU NEED A LANGUAGE LESSON. WE NEED TO TALK. - SH

I AGREE. WHEN? - MOLLY

I’M OUT OF TOWN FOR 48 HOURS. ERRAND FOR MYCROFT. I’LL CALL WHEN I RETURN. GOT TO GO - SH

And that was all she heard from him. It was just like the infuriating man to leave a cryptic message on her wall, and leave her to stew for a couple of days. But, despite her annoyance, she found herself smiling more and more as the possibility that she was interpreting his message correctly began to grow in her mind. She loved him, had for years, in fact. And she knew he cared for her. As a friend, at the very least. He had, for the most part, given up trying to manipulate her. He no longer insulted her, at least not deliberately, and had, lately, made even more use of his favorite bolthole, her flat. But a red rose meant far more than that, she knew. She just hoped he was aware of that fact. But before long, Molly had grown impatient with Sherlock’s absence. Long before 48 hours had passed, she made her way to 221B Baker Street to leave a little artistic rendering of her own, which she hoped the detective would see as soon as he returned from wherever his brother had sent him.

Which, of course, never being one to miss the signs of somebody intruding in his personal domain, he noticed immediately. On the wall of his bedroom, just below his copy of the periodic table, and easily visible from his bed, was a crude drawing. A drawing of a woman, barely more than a stick figure, in a long white coat and with a ponytail, followed by an anatomically correct drawing of a heart, then a taller male figure in a long dark coat, his head topped with curls and a deerstalker. There was no mistaking the message it conveyed.

Sherlock stared at the drawing for a moment or two, a smile spreading across his entire face, showing his dimples to perfection and lighting his iridescent eyes. He reached for his mobile to type.

DID YOU GRAFFITI MY WALLS WHILE I WAS GONE? - SH

I CONSIDER IT ART, YOU GIT. - MOLLY

GRAFFITI IS ART IN SOME CASES. REGRETFULLY, NOT IN THIS ONE. - SH

IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS. - MOLLY

MAY I ASSUME YOUR DRAWING IS IN RESPONSE TO MINE? - SH

YES, BUT FLOWERS CAN’T SAY EVERYTHING. SOMETIMES WORDS ARE ALSO IMPORTANT, SHERLOCK.- MOLLY

YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE SOME DIFFICULTY IN REGARD TO EXPRESSING SENTIMENT. FLOWERS MAY HAVE TO DO FOR THE MOMENT. - SH

ACCEPTABLE. FOR NOW. - MOLLY

GOOD. MAY I REMIND YOU THAT THE WORDS YOU’RE WAITING FOR ARE, IN FACT, PART AND PARCEL OF THE COMMON WEDDING CEREMONY? CAN YOU BE THAT PATIENT? - SH

THAT’S MY MIDDLE NAME. MARY MARGARET PATIENCE HOOPER. BUT I KNOW YOU ARE FAR FROM PATIENT, SO I SHOULD TELL YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU NOW, I GUESS - MOLLY

MAY I COME OVER? - SH

I’LL BE WAITING IN MY BEDROOM. - MOLLY

I’LL BRING SUNGLASSES. “THE BETTER TO SEE YOU, MY DEAR.” - SH

THAT SOUNDED RATHER WOLFISH. - MOLLY

JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET THERE. - SH

And so she did wait, but not patiently. And when she finally moved to Baker Street, Molly insisted on cutting out the section of wall with the daisy painting and bringing it with her to hang, properly framed, just next to her graffiti expression of love. And, needless to say, when she finally heard the words, her wedding bouquet consisted of an abundance of daisies, with a single red rose.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my poor blog at HooperandHolmes.wordpress.com


End file.
